


Little Miss Perfect

by Infinitychanges, optimisticpizza



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitychanges/pseuds/Infinitychanges, https://archiveofourown.org/users/optimisticpizza/pseuds/optimisticpizza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-three-year-old Alex Morgan earned the starting job for the U.S. Women's National Team in 2012. That year, she led the U.S. to absolute victory with twenty-eight goals, twenty-one assists, and seventy-seven points, joining the legendary Mia Hamm as the only U.S. player to tally twenty goals and twenty assists in one calendar year. Dubbed U.S. Soccer’s 2012 Female Athlete of the Year, it was clear that Alex Morgan was on the rise as the goal scoring continued into 2013, helping the Portland Thorns FC earn the inaugural NWSL championship.</p>
<p>But during an international friendly in October, the young, promising striker took a turn for the worse. A steady stream of inconsistent playing time with an injury planted and nurtured the seeds of doubt within her. What happens when Little Miss Perfect discovers that she isn’t so perfect after all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Miss Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot based off the song "Little Miss Perfect" by Claude Kelly.
> 
> Hey guys! Infinitychanges and I have joined forces to write this fic. It took forever, but it’s been really fun working together, and we think you’ll like it! 
> 
> This is a submission to the Talexfanfiction Writing Contest on Tumblr, so if you do like it, we’d appreciate your vote! (Likes are one point each, reblogs are three points each.) You can vote [here](http://talexfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/142561958697/title-little-miss-perfect-authors). Voting ends in under a week.
> 
> If you didn’t like it, we’d love to hear your feedback—actually, we’d love to hear your feedback anyway. Thanks! :)

**_Little Miss Perfect_ **  
A one-shot by Infinitychanges and optimisticpizza

 

* * *

 

     The Oxford Dictionary defines the word _perfect_ as having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristic; in other words, being as good as it is possible to be. You recall many times where your coaches told you, “ _I need you at your absolute best.”_ Or, your personal favorite, “ _You don’t get anywhere being average. You have to be perfect.”_ In theory, you have to thank them for making you work hard to fulfill your dreams, but you also hate them for making you lose sight of who you were.

     You vowed that when you had children, you’d always remind them that they didn’t have to be anything other than themselves. You made that vow because over time, you realized that “perfect” doesn’t exist. Even though you made that promise to yourself, you found yourself woefully unprepared for when your daughter came to you in the midst of a breakdown.

     “Mom? Can we talk?” Sawyer asks.

     “Can we talk” are three words that nobody ever wants to hear because they inflict a sense of overwhelming dread. Nine times out of ten, when a conversation is started with them, it’s guaranteed to be bad. But in this instance, those words aren’t what are concerning you. It’s the obvious look of discomfort on Sawyer’s face and the glassiness of her eyes, indicating that she’s ready to cry, which is something that never happens.

     “Of course, Sweetheart. What’s wrong?” you ask as your motherly instincts start to kick in.

     “Am I good enough?”

     Hearing that makes two things that have thrown you off about Sawyer. You frown because you’re unsure of why she’s asking that.

     “Why do you ask that Sawyer?”

     “Because some kids today at school were saying that I won’t be as a good as you and Momma were when you both were players,” she answers.

     Your eyes widen at the confession, and you can feel your stomach drop because of her words. Sawyer takes a seat on the couch and puts her head in her hands.

     “I just want to be as good as you both were. Everyone says I should be and that’s all I want.”

     You sit down next to Sawyer and place your hand on her knee. She looks up at you and you can see that the tears that were threatening to fall a few moments ago have now started to fall.

     “Sweetheart, you don’t have be like your Momma and I. You’re not either of us and we don’t want you to be. We want you to just be Sawyer,” you say strongly.

     “But me just being Sawyer isn’t what others want.”

     For the third time, you’re left speechless by your daughter. She’s too young to be thinking that way and you don’t want those thoughts in her head because you know firsthand what they’ll lead to.

     “You want to hear a story?” you gently ask.

     Sawyer slowly nods her head at you. You let out a breath and begin,

     “Well, it all started when…”

 

* * *

 

     From midfield, Lauren boots the ball deep into Argentina territory, and Pinoe races to catch up with it. Not a soul surrounds the winger, so she allows herself a couple of touches to ease the ball into her possession. When an opposing player finally nears her to challenge, the American midfielder swiftly cuts it back, moving into open space and setting the defender on her heels. As the Argentinean gives chase, Megan winds up and drills in the shot. The keeper comes out to stop it but only manages to deflect it back to the waiting feet of Christen Press, not two yards away. And of course, this makes for an automatic goal.

     The crowd of less than a thousand spectators erupt with cheers and applause as Christen sends it home for her fourth of the day, and around you rings cries of “Woo-hoo!” and “Yeah, Chris!” You turn around and collapse back into your seat, feigning exhaustion as you watch the striker casually return the high-fives and pats on the back to Abby and Heather. A flurry of emotions courses through your body, regrettably none of them appropriate to announce. After she’s finished applauding, Tobin returns to the bench, sitting next to you with a broad smile on her face. She turns to you to make a comment but bites it back when she processes your sullen image. It takes a minute before her words find their way to your ears.

     “Something the matter, Lex?” she asks quietly, not wanting to pry but encouraging you to say something, anything.

     “I’m _fine_ ,” you state dryly, almost harshly. Immediately you regret the slight sting in your tone as your friend returns her concentration to the field, her happy demeanor having straightened itself out. She waits a few more minutes before speaking again, silenced by Sydney leaving the bench and Abby taking a seat, who is welcomed by a roar of approval from the team.

     When Kelley gets the nod to go on and replace Lauren, Tobin adds, “I’m always here for you, buddy.” She searches your stoic countenance for any signs of receiving her message, but Lauren’s sudden arrival shifts her attention. The winger relaxes back into her seat and turns to her other friend to begin a new conversation that promises more talk than yours.

     Your gloomy gaze moves down towards the lush grass beneath your feet, but the vibrant green blades aren’t your main focal point. Slowly, cautiously, you flick your left foot up ever so slightly on its gliding joint, then back down. After a few reps, you venture to rotate it in complete circles. Nothing hurts, and it feels natural. You begin to pivot your ankle faster and faster, trying to reach the breaking point but finding none. Frustrated, you pick it up about eight inches off the ground and slam it back down on the playing surface—hard.

     “Shit,” you mutter, wincing at the pain that immediately shoots up your leg and leaves your ankle shell-shocked for several seconds too long for comfort.

     Tobin and Lauren’s conversation pauses, but when you open your eyes and look over, they act as if nothing happened and carry on. You heave an exhausted sigh, tip your head back, and close your eyes, uninterested in the remainder of the match.

     It’s not that you’re unhappy about Christen’s success tonight. You’re thrilled for her—four goals in one match is a huge accomplishment, regardless of who the opponent may be. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a wee bit jealous.

     You’ve seen the video, several times. Instantaneous agony had riddled your features in the moment, but the pain that the re-injury caused has carried on for two long months. Being sent home to recover for the allotted four to six weeks wasn’t a huge deal, although being resigned to watch your team traverse through the rest of Olympic Qualifying from your couch definitely hurt. Rest and rehabilitation, they told you. And under normal circumstances, you would have welcomed rest with open arms, glad for the excuse to spend some much-needed time with your family. But the fact of the matter was that you had already been resting and rehabilitating that very same ankle for seven grueling months, having just recently returned to the national team in June. Eventually that month you had netted your first international goal in over a year. The light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter and brighter. Then the Guatemala game happened.

     Despite the setback, you’re still meeting your goals. With a post-injury objective of staying on the roster and heading to Brasilia with the national team, the road to recovery had been tough and strenuous, to say the least. Yet here you are, and while you should be grateful for the opportunity to be sitting on this bench, the squishy foam panels against your back, cherry-red pad beneath, and vibrantly-colored pinafore you wear are all unforgiving—a constant, painful reminder of what you’re doing: watching other strikers excel in your spot.

     Shortly after Sydney is carded and ejected from the match in her mere ten minutes of glory, the distinct three-whistle pattern rings out across the pitch and throughout Mané Garrincha Stadium to signify the end of the contest. It tells you your squad has routed Argentina 7-0 off the sweet feet of Carli and Christen, and you finish the group stage of the four-nation tournament 1-1-1 in a tie for first place, slating a rematch against the host country in a three short days.

     When the teams have finished shaking hands, Jill gives her post-game speech before dismissing everyone. Your left ankle still slightly tingles after the self-abuse you indignantly inflicted upon it, but you hide the limp before the training staff detect anything amiss. As you head towards the bench, a heavy forearm plops onto your left shoulder. You turn your head sharply to find Abby Wambach beside you staring blissfully into the crowd.

     “Greeeeeat game, Baby Horse!” she declares, drawing out the second syllable in sarcasm. “One-hundred percent. No turnovers, all your passes were on point, and those shots on goal? Unbelievable.”

     You let out a brief smile to humor her, and the older forward beams at you with amusement and satisfaction. Then her expression changes gradually to display nothing but honesty.

     “Really though, Morgan. It’ll heal up—” She points her finger at your feet, indicating your ankle, “—and in no time you’ll be back up top with me in the starting lineup.”

     Solemnly you nod your head, noncommittal, unsure of whether you believe her or not. Abby takes notice and opens her mouth to add to her statement, but a voice from behind stops her as you both turn around.

     “Great game, Abby,” Christen states quietly as she draws near.

     “Thanks, Pressy,” the veteran replies, her strong, powerful articulation a stark contrast to the former Cardinal’s reserved undertone. “But your performance tonight beat all. Woman of the Match, right?” Abby raises her eyebrows teasingly.

     Christen blushes profusely, her face reddening even more than it already is from running for the past ninety minutes. “I couldn’t have scored all those without you up there,” she says.

     With a grin upon her face, Abby just shakes her head and marches past you two, chasing down Dawn’s water cooler. You stare at Abby’s retreating form and can’t help the intense feeling of jealousy that is flaring up inside of you. Bitterness and anger sweep across your face like an ocean wave on the sandy shore, but unlike those, this wave doesn’t recede.

     Beside you, Christen clears her throat, and the abrupt break in silence is enough to snap you back into reality.

     “Sorry,” you mutter, partly to Christen, partly to yourself.

     She has a fine mixture of confusion and sympathy written in her features as her brow crinkles with curiosity. After several long seconds of eyeballing each other, she finally voices her feelings under the guise of concern. “You all right, Alex?”

     “Never better,” you reply, briefly, forcing a smile to back up this falsehood before turning away, rambling to centerfield. Anywhere but next to her.

     “ _Woman of the Match should be mine. Abby should be congratulating me, not Press,”_ you think heatedly. You know that it’s irrational to think that way, but seeing your mentor praise Christen evokes a repulsive lump in your throat. You should be applauding her for such a great game, but you can’t get the words out of your mouth because just thinking about them leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Her smile. Her goals. Her acclaim. It should all be yours.

     In your mind it’s hard to think about not playing because you just want to be out on the pitch, injury be damned. Except, you’re under strict orders from both your doctor and Jill to not put more stress on it. “ _Stupid ankle. Why can’t you just heal already?_ ” you think as you glare at your injury. Your silent, one-sided argument with your pitiful joint hinders your senses, opening yourself up for an ambush.

     “Don’t think too hard, Baby Horse, or you’ll pop a vein,” you hear from the voice of your favorite person. You easily detect the twinge of sarcasm infused into it, and you can practically see the smirk on her face as she says it. Beaming with a grin that only one person on this earth can draw out of you, you turn around to meet the sight of your best friend. But the intensity of Tobin’s gaze slowly wipes the smile off your face, almost making you cringe. It’s as if she can see right through you. “You good, Al?” she asks.

     “Yeah, Tobs, I’m good,” you lie, mentally crossing your fingers in the hope that it sounds convincing enough. But of course it’s not enough to fool the one who knows you best. Tobin opens her mouth to respond but is abruptly cut off.

     “Let’s go, ladies; the bus is leaving in five!” orders team captain Christie.

     Shaking her head, Tobin looks at you, a smile having finally found its way into her expression. “Come on Al, let’s get out of here.”

     You laugh and throw your arm around her waist, only somewhat faking a jovial mood now. “Race ya to the bus?”

     Before she can even answer, you’re already running. “ _Hey!_ That’s cheating,” she complains as she breaks after you.

 

* * *

 

     Being from California, you never really thought that you’d fall for a place as much as you’ve fallen for Portland. There’s just something about the town that feels like home to you. You don’t know what it is, but Portland is different. Maybe it’s the people who aren’t constantly beleaguering you for pictures and autographs; maybe it’s the quiet, chill atmosphere of public life; or maybe it’s the feeling that you get when you step out on the turf at Providence Park. You have no idea, but whatever the reason, is you’re thankful that you get the chance to play in Portland and be surrounded by the best fans in the world.

     Exploring the city is a favorite pastime of yours when you need a break from the pitch. It’s a change of scenery from Diamond Bar, but it’s not inconsistent like all the places you travel with the national team, where you spend one free day out before leaving it until the next camp or friendly that’s scheduled there. There’s that certain high you get from visiting a new place, and with Portland it never goes away no matter how many times you drift through it. Downtown life gives off a homey, easy-going feel, with various shops tucked away in its shadows, a few odd street performers, and the locals casually interacting amongst themselves. You’re more than content with watching Tobin roam right alongside them, excited over each little knick-knack that she picks up on your expeditions, whether it’s a smooth pebble marred only slightly by mud that bears significance only she sees or a beautiful hand-carved pendant with a price tag she somehow managed to cut by eighty percent.

     Portland has this vibe to it that makes it the perfect place to have a career, raise a family, and be happy for the rest of your life. It’s the type of place that you see yourself settling down in at some point.

     As you pass by one of the many parks in Portland, a little girl in a huge coat that doubles her body size, all giggles and grins, zips right by you without so much as a second-glance, the pure snow crunching beneath her light step. A little boy, presumably her brother and appearing only slightly older than she, chases her at half-sprint. They look so carefree and happy that it brings a soft smile to your face. Finally the brother catches up to her and you watch as he tickles her senseless, happily stating, “I got you!” as she squeals with laughter the longer he persists. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot an adorable couple sitting on a park bench together, holding hands and watching the two children, presumably theirs, with the brightest, adoring expressions. Your gentle grin falters, morphing into a sort of grimace as you avert your eyes.

     It takes a few seconds to realize that beside you Tobin had come to a complete stop and was now staring at you, a peculiar expression evident that doesn’t change when you meet her gaze.

     “Lex? You wanna stop here?”

     You follow the direction of her pointing finger and see a bench, which overlooks the lake in the middle of the park, that apparently the midfielder has brought you to. Nodding your head, you reply, “Yeah, we can sit here.”

     Dusting the snow off the seat with one fluid sweep of her arm, Tobin plops down with an overly dramatic huff. You follow suit, only much lighter and less flashy.

     “Man, my legs were tired,” she says. After a brief pause during which she looks over only to find a vacant expression, Tobin turns her attention to the food cart at the other end of the park. When she checks her watch and sees that it’s already one o'clock, she breaks the silence. “I’m going to get us some food. You want anything?”

     “A hot dog and a pretzel, please,” you reply, staring at the trees, the sunshine beaming through their bare branches.

     Tobin nods, gets up, and saunters towards the food cart. You sit in silence staring out at the frozen lake in front of you, deep in thought. Subtly you steal a glance to your left, back towards the young family. The love and adoration they have for their kids reflecting in the parents’ eyes, and while it makes you smile, it also breaks your heart. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of what you don’t have in your life now and an even more painful reminder of what you could have had later on.

     You know that you did nothing wrong by calling off your engagement to Servando. In fact, he was the one who insinuated it, suggesting that it might be the best option for both of you. But it was you who agreed.

     As college sweethearts, you two went through a lot together. He was there when you were called up to the full team back in 2010, and he was there through your rise from freshman striker to one of the best forwards Cal-Berkeley had ever seen. He, like everyone else who had ever seen you play, knew your potential. While many men may have felt awkward, dispirited, and even a bit intimidated that their girlfriend’s career would eventually overshadow theirs, he remained supportive and loving—the ideal boyfriend; one you could see yourself with permanently.

     You loved him. Really, you did. But as the years went on, you noticed that the two of you were no longer that young couple in hopelessly in love, absolutely devoted to each other to the end of time. Age came quickly, and along with it came a new type of maturity. The gap between the two of you progressively expanded, but this gap was more than mere miles. While you were the rising star of the United States women’s national team, he was struggling to get playing time in the men’s national professional league. You were actively scoring goals and becoming the youngest person in U.S. WNT history to score a goal in a World Cup. He was finding it hard to compete with his teammates and score goals like he did back in college. You two were heading down separate roads and it was painfully obvious.

     You did try to make things work, though. Every time you were away, he made it a point to video-call you on a daily basis and talk until you had to go to sleep or head to practice. When you were in town, you two went out on as many dates as you could in order to try and see if some semblance of love was still there. When he proposed, you honestly hadn’t been expecting it. You were elated, of course, but you found yourself saying “Yes” and immediately wanting to take it back. But he looked so jubilant, so you found yourself trying to convince yourself that him being happy made you happy as well. In theory, it did, but not the type of happy that one should be when they just got engaged. You decided to put your best face forward and be happy because you were engaged to the love of your life. That’s how it was supposed to be, right?

     That’s what you tried to tell yourself. Soon you were posting the engagement announcement on social media, but you had a nagging feeling of remorse the second you tapped the button. Once the congratulations posts started pouring in, reality sunk in. People were genuinely ecstatic for you because they knew you were excited. Weren’t you? You found yourself overwhelmed by the weight of it all. That night when you went to bed, you lay wide awake wondering if you had made the right decision or if perhaps you had jumped the gun.

     The months following the proposal were a whirlwind of trying to balance your professional career and wedding plans. The entire ordeal proved to be draining, both physically and mentally. Eager more than ever to spend time with your future husband, your priorities hastily shifted until he occupied half your time and even more of your thought. The closer your wedding got, the farther your mind seemed to be from soccer. Life became strictly a balancing act. The pressures life forced upon you were tearing you up from the inside out. He noticed.

     Your mental replaying of that decisive night is suddenly broken when you something nudges your lower leg. Confused, you glance down to find a small soccer ball at your foot. As you bend down to pick it up, a small voice calls out, its owner fast approaching.

     “Sorry!” You look up and notice that it’s the same young boy you saw earlier playing with his little sister.

     Smiling, you hold it out to him and say, “It’s okay; I don’t mind.”

     He looks back at his sister before turning towards you again. “I’m sorry. My little sister doesn’t know how to kick a soccer ball all that well.”

     You watch the little girl race over to be with her brother, guessing her to be about four years old. Pulled back in a ponytail, her light brown hair glimmers when the rays of sunlight hit it just right, and her warm eyes shine with childlike innocence.

     “I’m sure that with you teaching her, she’ll learn,” you kindly respond.

     Filled with pride, the young boy beams at you. “Would you like to play with us?”

     “Only if it’s okay with your parents.”

     The children run back to their parents. Since they left you holding their ball, you trail them with the faint smile still present.

     “Mommy, can the nice lady play with us?” you hear him ask.

     Judging by the look on her face, you know their mother instantly recognizes you, but her scrutinizing softens to hide the surprise before her kids notice. “Sure, sweetie, but only if she wants to.”

     Both him and his little sister look at you with the biggest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen, backing you into a corner. Unable to deny their cuteness, you find yourself declaring, “Of course I want to! Let’s play!”

     They both squeal and you immediately drop the ball to your feet, kicking it to the little boy’s left foot. He takes a soft touch to his little sister who tries with all her might to kick it but can only get it to roll about an inch or two. You see her visibly deflate at not being able to kick the ball like you or her brother, so you bend down in order to look in her eye. “Try to kick the ball with the inside of your foot.”

     “How do I do that?” Her eyes are wide with an eagerness to learn; milk chocolate surrounded by deep forest green, just about melting your heart. They burn into you with a level of intensity that you rarely see aside from one person in your life.

     You smile and bring your hand down to her right foot, patting the side of her big toe inside its clunky boot to show her where to kick the ball. Looking back up at her, you ask, “Do you want to try again?”

     She nods her head so fast that you’re genuinely afraid that her head might pop clean off her neck. “Okay, now kick the ball to me just like I showed you,” you instruct, standing back up.

     She looks at the ball and back to her foot before she winds her leg back, connecting perfectly with the ball, sending it rolling straight towards your foot. When you trap it with ease, she jumps and squeals with delight.

     “I did it!” Turning to her brother, she continues, “I did it! Did you see?” Her brother smiles proudly and nods his head. “Mommy! Daddy! I kicked the ball!”

     Her parents smile brightly. “Yes, sweetie, we sure did! We’re so proud of you,” her father applauds.

     The three of you continue to pass the ball for a few more minutes before a voice from behind hollers to you. “Playing pickup without me, huh? I’m hurt.”

     Turning around, you see Tobin standing with your food in her hands. “You weren’t cool enough to join our little game,” you state in a sarcastic tone as if it’s obvious. To the kids, you ask, “Is it okay if my friend here joins us? She’s not as cool as us, but she’s all right.” They both nod their heads furiously in agreement. “Well then, I guess you can play,” you tell the winger.

     Tobin grins, placing your food down, and moves to join you. The little girl immediately wants to be on your team and her brother asks to be on Tobin’s. You watch as she leans down, gives him a fist bump, and says, “Good pick, little dude! We’re obviously the cooler team.”

     Shaking your head, you smile, look down at the little girl, and ask, “How about we make it girls against boys?”

     Tobin’s head pops up at the comment. “Aren’t I a girl, Lex?” she asks, smirking.

     “Right now you’re one of the boys,” you respond haughtily.

     The little girl and boy both shout at the same time, “Game on!”

     Using trees for imaginary goals, the game commences, the ball slick against the fluffy snow. After about twenty minutes of light-hearted and cheerful play, your team pulls out with a 2-1 win over Tobin’s.

     “Girls rule!” you exclaim, stooping down to offer a low-placed high-five to your enthusiastic teammate while the “boys team” sulks with their arms crossed at the unfair conduct they’re certain that you two committed somewhere along the way.

     “Danny, Sarah,” their mom calls, “I think it’s time to go. Say goodbye to the nice ladies.”

     The little kids frown and ask, “Aw, mom, do we _have_ to go?”

     “Yes, we do. It’s getting late and we have to go home.”

     The two of them visibly deflate at her words. They slink towards you and Tobin. “Thank you for playing with us.”

     “You guys are so welcome! It was our pleasure,” you both respond with sincerity. Bending down, to Sarah you say, “Keep working on your form. One day, if you really want to, you might find yourself on the national soccer team.”

     Encouraged, she lights up. “You really think so?”

     “I know so,” you affirm, nodding your head gravely. “You have a bright future ahead of you, and if that’s what you want to be when you grow up, I know you’ll be a great player for the U.S.”

     She grins with the biggest smile that you’ve seen all day and gives you an enormous hug. The heartfelt display of affection catches you off guard, but you gain your composure and return the gesture with a quick hug of your own. When she lets go of you, you stand up and look at their parents.

     “Thank you so much for playing with them. It means a lot to us that you two took time out of your busy day to play with our kids,” the mom notes admiringly.

     “It was our pleasure,” Tobin answers honestly. “They’re great kids.”

     You nod your head in wholehearted agreement. “NWSL preseason starts in March; if you guys want, I can get the kids a spot on the bench one game,” you offer.

     At this, they light up. “That’d be great! I’m sure they’d love it. We’ll be watching the calendar. Thanks again!”

     “Bye!” the kids yell.

     With a gentle smile, you watch them walk off. The girl tugs slightly at the father’s arm as the mother picks up their food bag. He hoists her onto his shoulders, and the boy walks in between the parents, sporadically kicking his soccer ball in front of them.

     This picturesque scene of a regular, ordinary, normal family shouldn’t inflict pain, but it does.

 

* * *

 

     Checking Twitter is ritual for you. As soon as you come to consciousness, your arm is stretching out to the nightstand and groping about for the all-too-familiar object. After clearing away notifications of junk email that you’re pretty almost positive you never signed up for and playing the word _QI_ for sixty-two points on “Words With Friends” to regain the lead against your sister, the thousands of brilliant white pixels from your phone screen are shining a damn near blinding light in your eyes. Several blinks and eye-rubs later, you’re mostly awake and somewhat voraciously skimming through the collection of one hundred forty character blurbs that form, “like”ing them periodically.

     Some call it a bad habit, but you don’t. Not only is it a vital source of news (because how else would you get news?), it’s a way to connect with your friends and family. The downside, comes when you have to scan through hundreds of Tweets from random people, typically fans but not always, tagging you. It’s not taboo to read those, but most of your teammates, save for the young ones who are new to the sensation of being complimented and criticized and coddled, choose to ignore them. And most of the time, you do purposely overlook them.

     Today, however, you notice a recurring theme as you graze over them, piquing your interest. Alongside the occasional few that just include emoticons or terms of endearment are Tweets that simultaneously light a fire in you and chill you to the bone.

 

 

 

>      **Haven’t seen @alexmorgan13 in a while!**
> 
>      **@alexmorgan13 <3 #bae**
> 
>      **Where are you @alexmorgan13???**
> 
>      **@alexmorgan13 appreciation tweet**
> 
>      **@ChristenPress @alexmorgan13 “Christen Press Steps Up to the Challenge Thursday in Absence of Star WNT Striker Alex Morgan”**
> 
>      **@ussoccer_wnt @alexmorgan13 resting easy because @ChristenPress is here #PressRelease**
> 
>      **@ChristenPress “4 Things You Need to Know About the U.S. WNT: Goals #1, #2, #3, and #4 by Christen Press”**

 

     You lay the phone face-down on the mattress and blink hard, several times in succession, but it’s not the light that forces you to close your eyes. Pulling the covers back over your shoulder, you bury your head in the cool cotton and polyester sheets. A sudden headache has dawned, and you’re content to turn over and fall right back asleep. But that’s not everyone’s plan for you.

     “Lex!” the midfielder exclaims as she jimmies the door to your room open. Like Superman she catapults herself onto your bed, single-handedly disrupting any chance of a few extra minutes to sleep. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

     “Nnnnnmmmph,” you moan into your pillow.

     “Wake up, you sleepyhead; get up, get out of bed; see how the sun is shiiiiining!” Tobin belts out in an obnoxious tone as she repeatedly shakes your covered body back and forth, just begging for a reaction. “Stand up and move your toes; tell them it’s time to go; you’ve got a lot to do today!”

     “Tobin Heath, if you don’t get off me in five seconds. . .” you mutter, interrupting her beloved morning song.

     Ceasing her melody, she drops right next to you, laying her head on your pillow just inches away from your own. The sweet smell of strawberries on her breath indicates that she’s been up and busy for quite a while already, even at this ungodly hour. “What’re you gonna do about it, Striker?” she challenges, a twinkle in her eye.

     In response, you throw the covers off and teasingly shove the midfielder, who rolls off and lands on the ground with a resounding thud.

     “Ow,” Tobin complains as she stands up, rubbing her side and pouting. “See if I offer _you_ some of the delicious pancakes I made, now.”

     You roll your eyes and shake your head as you mechanically climb out of bed. “Good _bye_ , Tobin,” you insist, shooing her out the door.

     You and Tobin take a cab to the airport. The seats are comfortable and the air is warm, quickly lulling you to sleep. The next thing you know, the car door slams shut and your friend is standing outside with both of yours bags, smirking and waving. You shake your head and follow her inside. Once there, you sit waiting patiently for your flight to get called so you can finally board.

     The hustle and bustle of the airport normally makes you anxious because you hate waiting for your flight. Today, however, you can’t wait to get back to camp. Dawn and the training staff have finally given you the go-ahead to begin training again, lightly at first and progressing from there. It’s nothing compared to real game-time, but it’s a start, so you consider it a win in your book. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you’re startled when you see Tobin appear in front of you with a cup of coffee and huge smile.

     “Here you go, Lex. Figured you might need a cup before the flight.”

     You’re thankful to the heavens above that they gave you such an amazing friend. For the first time in months, you smile genuinely, “You’re my savior! Thank you, Tobs,” you say gratefully.

     She flashes that grin of hers that you love. “No problem, Baby Horse. I know you need your coffee so you can be fun on the plane ride.”

     You put your hand on your chest and drop your jaw open in feigned offense. “I will have you know that I am always fun, Heath.”

     “Sure you are, Morgan, sure you are,” she laughs. You glance at her and can’t help the smile that comes to your face when you see that she’s in her blue turtle shorts and black PDX snapback, reflecting the casual, laid-back, signature Tobin Heath.

     The midfielder notices your lengthy stare, crinkling her brow in uncertainty. “Al, what’cha lookin’ at?”

     You let out a deep sigh, wondering how to really express your appreciation to your best friend without sounding weird.

     _You’re so cute._

     _I love your turtle shorts and PDX snapback._

     _You just look great._

     After several seconds of staring, you think you’ve found the right words and are about to respond, but you hear the familiar sounds of gasps and shuffling feet nearing. Tobin winces at you, and you feel a twinge of guilt for not answering. But only a twinge.

     “Alex Morgan?” the trio of young girls whisper harshly, as if your name is an expletive.

     You flash a look of apology to Tobin before standing up to greet the kids with a welcoming smile, one that hides the fact that you’re constantly badgered by fans and just want a break. That’s impossible, though, because you truly are grateful for them.

     “The one and only.”

     More gasps and hushed exclamations of glee erupt. “Do you think we could have a picture?” they ask timidly, smartphone in hand.

     “Definitely!” you reply. “Tobin, can you take it?”

     The winger smirks at you before turning to face the young girls, who hadn’t yet recognized Tobin from the back and now release a new round of squeals before handing her the phone. You wrap your arms around them and grin as Tobin snaps the picture, then they beckon a middle-aged man, presumably a parent standing a safe distance off, over to take their picture with both you and Tobin.

     “Thank you so much,” the guy says. “We’re huge fans.”

     “We watched the Brazil tournament online!” one of the girls pipes up. “The stream was horrible, but you played great, Tobin.”

     Your teammate smiles and nods her head in acknowledgement. “Thanks.”

     The youngest one looks over to you, a mix of sorrow and curiosity in her eyes. “Are you going to play soon, Alex?”

     “Katie!” the third girl reprimands under her breath, shooting a look of apology in your direction.

     The Tweets you read this morning, and have been reading since CONCACAF, immediately pop into your head. When _will_ you return?

     “What, Laura?” the youngest complains, innocent in her own eyes. “It’s just a question.”

     “It’s fine, really,” you tell the one named Laura. To the second, you say, “Well, I’m still recovering, but the training staff said I can start practicing again. We’re actually headed to camp right now, so hopefully my ankle will get stronger and I’ll be back on the field.”

     “Great!” they reply jovially.

     “Now Boarding Flight 891 to Los Angeles, California,” you hear over the intercom.

     Tobin turns to you. “Looks like that’s us. Let’s go, Baby Horse.”

     “Thanks again for taking your time for pictures,” the four say cheerfully. “Have fun at camp. We’ll be cheering for you during the Algarve and World Cup!”

     “No problem, guys! Thanks!” you reply, grabbing your bags as you follow Tobin towards the boarding area.

     On the plane as Tobin occupies herself with browsing the latest _Surf_ magazine, you lose yourself in thought. Typically, you try not to let fan comments get to you. All they do is add extra emotion that you know you don’t need. However, their recently increasing quantity makes them hard to ignore. The nagging question repeats itself over and over again in your head. When _will_ you return?

 

* * *

 

   You don’t know how long you spend sitting in your bed staring at the wall, nor do you hear the hotel room door open. You barely even register that Tobin is in front of you until you feel the bed dip and her arms wrap around you. Tobin just holds you as you break down into her chest, quiet as she rubs soothing circles on your back. Your sobs slowly subside, and you feel exhaustion setting in. Tobin doesn’t say anything for a while and you’re grateful for the silence because it gives you a chance to get your thoughts together.

     “Al, what’s wrong?” she asks softly, plucking the mess that was a half-eaten chocolate bar (hidden from Dawn) out of your hand.

     You realize that you can answer that in two ways: You could tell her the truth or you could lie.

     Before you can answer, however, Tobin says, “Please don’t lie to me, Alex. I know something’s wrong. I haven’t said anything because I wanted you to come to me on your own. But I come back to you in tears, which is something that never happens, so please tell me what is going on. I just want to help.”

     Silently you grab your phone, Twitter still pulled up, and hand it to her, not once daring to look at her face because you’re terrified of what she may say. Tobin scrolls through the Tweets that you’ve been reading and you can feel the change in her body language, which does absolutely nothing to calm your already aching heart. After what feels like hours but in reality was only a few minutes, Tobin places your phone down and turns to you.

     “Alex, look at me,” she says, but you refuse to look at her because you’re afraid of what she’s going to say. Gently she lifts your face until you’re looking at her. You didn’t even realize that tears were falling until you feel her wiping them away. “Lex, you have to know that everything that those people said is not true. You’re the best damn striker I’ve ever met. This injury will heal and in no time you’ll be back on the field and scoring goals like always,” she says.

     You try, you really do, to believe her words, but you just can’t get rid of the little voice in the back of your head contrasting everything she just said.

     “I don’t know if I believe that anymore. I’ve been injured more than I’ve scored goals these past few months. What if they’re right? What if I’m not the same Alex that I used to be?” It’s not something you want to think about, but after everything that has happened as of late, it’s hard not to. “The World Cup is rapidly approaching and I haven’t been in my best form. Jill has every reason to pick a better striker to play during the World Cup. Someone like Press or even Amy; they’ve been playing well and I’ve been sitting rehabbing this stupid ankle of mine. I don’t deserve that spot on the roster,” you state dejectedly.

     “Alex, come on, you know none of that’s true—” Tobin begins, but you cut her off.

     “No Tobin, it is true. Jill needs the best twenty-three players for the World Cup to win. I am not the best and I haven’t been in a while,” you say angrily. You know that she’s just trying to help, but you can’t help the anger that flares inside. You stand up and start to furiously pace back and forth, the knock to your injured ankle from training today that took you off the pitch and rendered you bedridden by orders of Dawn adding a limp to your step. Not that you care.

     “You don’t get it, Tobin. You’re healthy and you have a guaranteed spot on the roster. I don’t and that kills me. Seeing everyone else play when all I want is to be out there on the pitch with all of you hurts more than I can ever describe. I’m _Alex Morgan_ and my place is on the pitch not on the bench,” you rush out in your haste to try to explain what is flowing through your head. “I’m the face of U.S. Soccer, how does it look for me to be on the bench?”

     You’re so wrapped up in your rant that you don’t realize that Tobin has gotten up and is standing in front of you. You barely even register the fact that her hands are on your arms until you feel her pull you into her chest. In your mind you don’t want to be comforted, so you try to fight the embrace. You just want everything to stop hurting. You squirm in her arms but never get anywhere because Tobin has a tight hold on you.

     Tobin just clutches you until you stop moving. Then, you feel more than hear her whisper in your ear, “You’re not just Alex Morgan, face of U.S. Soccer. You’re so much more than that.”

     “What am I then Tobs? I don’t know who I am anymore,” you gasp out through your tears.

     “You’re Alex Morgan, girl from Diamond Bar, sister to Jen and Jeri, daughter to Pam and Mike. You’re Alex Morgan, Baby Horse to all of us on the team. Winner of every Monop Deal game ever played. Alex Morgan, author of _The Kicks_ and role model to millions of little girls around the world.” The last part has you looking up at Tobin.

     “I’m not a role model to anybody. I can’t be a role model if I’m not playing.”

     Tobin gently shakes her head and removes her arms from around you. “Turn around Lex,” she tells you softly.

     “Why?” you ask, honestly confused by her request.

     “Turn around and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me, what do you see?” she asks.

     You decide to humor her for a bit so you turn around and look at yourself in the mirror. One glimpse and you’re taken aback. Your eyes are red and puffy from all your crying, you have angry marks around your eyes from when you pushed the palms of your hands in them to stop the crying, and the tear marks down your face are honestly bothering you because you don’t cry. Tobin stands behind you with the gentlest look on her face that it almost makes you want to weep.

     “What do you see Lex?” she asks again just as lightly as the first time.

     Sighing, you look at yourself and reply slowly, “I see a girl who is broken. I see someone who doesn’t like what she’s become. A girl who has lost her way and who doesn’t know who she is anymore. Looking at this girl in the mirror, I don’t know how I got here.” You don’t really understand why Tobin is having you do this because just staring at your reflection is making your heart clench painfully.

     Tobin smiles softly, saying, “You’re seeing what the years have taught you to be.”

     Hearing that makes you freeze and you stare at her wondering what she meant by that.

     “Tomorrow won’t be the same as today. You’re not alone, Lex. I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere. You say that you don’t know who you are anymore, so I’ll do my best to help you find yourself again. You can push me away as much as you want, but I’m not going anywhere. You’re my best friend, and I won’t stand by and watch as you fall apart,” she finishes.

     You turn around and wrap your arms around her neck. She rests her head on top of yours and kisses your head. You feel her words before you hear them.

     “If you need to be reminded who you are, I’ll remind you every day for as long as you need me to. Even when you don’t, I’ll still remind you.

     “Little Miss Perfect doesn’t always have to be perfect. She just needs to be herself.”

 

* * *

 

     Ninety minutes have passed and the final whistle has blown. You look up at the scoreboard and see “3-2”staring back at you in all its brilliant luminescence. It pains you to the core because you see the heartbreak on Sawyer’s face when she realizes that the game was over and that her team had lost. That look alone makes you want to rush the field and comfort her. You decide to wait, however, when you realize that a hundred and twenty yards plus a barricade are what separate you from getting to your child.

     You sit patiently as you watch the teams say good game and shake hands. Even after all these years, it’s still a foreign feeling being a spectator instead of a player. You may be way past playing age but your instincts are still that of a player. Watching your daughter play is always an experience because it reminds you of how much alike the two of you are. She has your speed and your determination, but when it comes to skill with the ball she reminds you of a certain someone. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when you spot Sawyer walking over to you. You can’t help but notice the sullen look on her face and it breaks your heart.

     “You played a great game, Sweetheart,” you say to her.

     “You’re only saying that because I’m your daughter,” she responds dejectedly as she lifts her head to look at you.

     “Yes, you are my daughter, but it’s true.”

     “Mom, how could I have had a great game? We _lost_.”

     Sawyer plops down on the bleachers beside you. You can see the mixture of emotions swirling around in her and it fills you with anguish to see her look so vulnerable. This was it. There’s nothing left of the season. This match was their last shot to make the playoffs, and despite a goal and an assist by your daughter, they couldn’t get it done.

     “How did you deal with it?” she asks you out of the blue.

     “How did I deal with what?”

     “Being the face of the U. S. Soccer, having everyone expecting things from you, stuff like that,” she answers.

     You take a deep breath and remember the conversation that the two of you had earlier that morning.

     “Remember what I told you this morning? It was a rough time when I was still playing. I was constantly getting injured, my game wasn’t where I wanted it to be, and my personal life was not the greatest. I tried so hard to be what everyone wanted me to be, which was perfect. In doing that, I lost sight of who I was and it was the worst feeling ever. I didn’t want to be seen as anything less than perfect, and that slowly ate away at me. I honestly hated myself for not living up to the image that was created for me.”

     “How did you get over all of that?” she wonders.

     “Honestly, it was all your Momma. She’ll disagree with me saying that, but if it wasn’t for her, I don’t know if I would have been able to get out of the spiral I was in,” you answer truthfully.

     You find yourself grinning from ear to ear just thinking about how amazing Tobin was throughout the entire ordeal. She never made you feel like you were anything other than you. She never expected anything. She made you feel like you again. Even now, you find yourself in awe of how she was your rock. Quietly keeping you grounded and never once letting you drown in your emotions.

     “I just wanted it to be perfect, y’know?” she says so softly that you almost miss it.

     Of course you know what she means. You spent years thinking the way she did and it almost ruined you. Knowing that your little girl feels the same way you did makes your heart clench painfully. You struggle to find the right words to tell her. You’re silent for a few moments before you remember.

     “Little Miss Perfect doesn’t always have to be perfect. She just needs to be herself.”

     You can see the gears turning in her head as she processes what you just said. The subtle clench of her jaw and the way her gaze loses focus for the slightest second makes you smirk because while Sawyer may act like you, she’s the spitting image of Tobin. She dips her head for a moment before launching herself into your arms. You hold her tightly to your chest and whisper in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

     You lift your head and lock eyes with Tobin beside you. She flashes her signature smile at you and mouths, “I love you.” Without even thinking the edges of your lips lift up into a smile of your own and mouth back, “I love you, too.”

     As you hold your daughter in your arms and share a tender smile with the love of your life, you send a thank you to whatever being in the sky that blessed you with the life that you have. The one that was built from the ashes of the crippled person you were. It may have taken you a while to realize that you don’t have to be perfect, but in that moment you feel like your life couldn’t _be_ more perfect.

 

 


End file.
